Dr Cyclonus or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and
by comradeWODKA
Summary: ...Love the Bomb Disposal Unit. A soon-to-be compilation of Cyclonus/Tailgate (MTMTE) oneshots I've been working on.
1. Chapter 1

******Description:** There's some fan-debate over Cyclonus' cheek holes and whether its worse for sucking spikes. But to be frank, all that makes me want to do is make him put that tongue to use _elsewhere_.**  
****Warnings:** Sexual content-**-**Sticky, Oral, Size Difference**  
****Rating: **M**  
****Continuity: **IDW Comics/More Than Meets The Eye**  
****Characters:** Cyclonus and Tailgate

* * *

Cyclonus was far from a passive mech. But for all the control he held over the _**where**_ and _**when**_ of their relationship—never so much as a clasped servo in public, and unflinchingly patient in the face of dry spells that nearly made Tailgate (who was not a terribly lewd bot, all things considered) scream in sexual frustration—the choices he made for the _**what**_ often held an unexpected air of _subservience_, one that just became more and more apparent as time went on. After all, how many fairly large, dominant mechs exert their authority just to ride the spike of a minibot half their size?

Tailgate couldn't tell whether this was due to Cyclonus' unusual personal tastes, or if someone had, uh, _**trained him well**_. He knew better than to ask. Still, it came as a bit of a surprise when his tentative request to try something _**new**_ resulted in his being hoisted up along the berth, settling with one little leg slung over each of the larger mech's broad shoulders.

Now, there were enough nasty rumors circulating—among those crew members less inclined to appreciate the presence of an ex-officer for the Decepticons— that even Tailgate (now) knew holes in one's cheeks aren't exactly conductive to the sort of acts said crewmates insisted had earned Cyclonus his previous position. It wasn't until that tongue swept across the rim of his valve cover that he remembered suction wasn't the _**only**_ thing a mech's mouth was good for.

"Wh—oh. Oh, _**wow**_." If Cyclonus was going to keep surprising him like this, perhaps he should invest in a better vocabulary with which to deal with it. Right now—sputtering static, servos hovering above that horned helm, uncertain exactly where would be the least disrespectful to touch—he isn't exactly at his most eloquent. One more insistent exploration along the slit splitting his cover down the middle, and he caved, disengaging the locks that sealed his valve off from the world—and from Cyclonus.

At first, gut instinct and shyness had Tailgate wound up as tight as a helical spring, but as usual, he was extraordinarily easy to please—and even easier, it seemed, to reduce to whimpers. Each little flick of that tongue toyed with the sensitive nodes lining his outermost calipers, circuits completing at the graze of soft plating, only to be broken again in an instant.

Charge built and crackled faintly, electric arcs adding a metallic tang to the taste of the lubricant that now seeped from Tailgate's valve in an unsteady trickle. What didn't drip down to puddle beneath him was lapped up dutifully, almost hungrily, by Cyclonus—after all, like most of their by-products, it wasn't _**so**_ different from the energon from which it derived.

Needless to say, Tailgate's decline into a squirming, panting mess was more like a nosedive. It didn't help that Cyclonus' engines were meant for the open air, not an enclosed habitation suite. When they roared, heat rolled off in waves of a magnitude no minibot could hope to combat. It was only a matter of cycles before every ventilation became labored and accompanied by an increasingly desperate mewl, his hips bucking up blindly into the sensation as it all became too much to bear.

As if on cue, large servos slid up the curves of his thighs to seize him by the waist, grip firm, but retaining the careful air that Cyclonus' switch from claws to blunted fingers had been unable to completely eradicate. Tailgate whined as he was pinned, pawing wildly until he found something—_**anything**_— to clutch—but even brute force couldn't still him completely, nor could it quell the quivering in his thighs as the overload continued to burn its way through his systems in a heady, irresistible torrent.

When Tailgate's optics finally came back online, he found that both of his arms were wrapped tight around Cyclonus' remaining horn, clutching it to his chest. In the moment it took him to realize that he'd _**basically**_ just committed the ultimate taboo, he noticed something else: Cyclonus wasn't pulling away. Wasn't shoving him off—just rumbling faintly, and in a way that didn't seem entirely threatening at that. Still… better not push his luck.

"Sorry- sorry!" The Autobot hastily released his grip, allowing the other mech to straighten out of the steep hunch he'd been inadvertently forced into.

Tailgate might've been looking like a total mess, but it was soon apparent that he wasn't the only one. Turns out cheek holes have, ah… more than one disadvantage.

And, well—Pits, he's already come this far. If Cyclonus really was so irritable that he'd flee at one unwanted touch, that moment getting yanked by the horn would've been an excellent time to speak up. So it's with a trusting, sleepy sort of defiance that one servo lifts, wiping a smidge of the faintly glowing substance off Cyclonus' chin with one stubby thumb. Taken aback—though whether it was at Tailgate's impudence or his kindness, even Cyclonus wasn't quite sure—the larger mech couldn't even muster up a frown, merely watching the little hand withdraw until his minibot berthmate broke the silence.

"If you, uh—wanted to try… _**you know**_." Tailgate confided in a hushed tone, pausing to clear his vocalizer into his palm in a faint burst of static. Cyclonus never let him just leave things at a polite hint. No, he had to come out and word everything as bluntly as the jet would himself, or he'd be here all night answering increasingly awkward questions. "…Spiking me, instead of the other way around… now might be your best chance." Their difference in size was… significant, but Tailgate couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so satisfied, so… well. _**Loose**_.

For a klik, Tailgate almost wondered if Cyclonus had heard. It wouldn't be the first time the jet ignored him, nor would it be the first time he'd declined the offer of an overload of his own. But then those watchful red optics shuttered, and Tailgate squeaked as large servos seized him by his ankles and dragged him back down the berth. And as close as that gruff voice grew in his receptors, the distance between their hips was far, far closer.

"I'll consider it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Description:** Fanfictions about Starscream and other seekers usually eroticize their wings to the Pits and back, but I've never seen a Tailgate/Cyclonus fic so much as take note that he's a flyer. Let's remedy that, shall we?  
**Warnings:** Fluff. Slight Wingkink maybe? hahaha idk  
**Rating:** ~E for Everyone~  
**Continuity:** IDW Comics/More Than Meets The Eye  
**Characters:** Cyclonus and Tailgate

* * *

No one ever mentions Cyclonus' wings.

In their defense, he's about as far from the stereotype of a flyer as a mech can get. He's no Seeker strutting about with them held perky and aloft, a constant broadcast of their mood, a constant temptation inviting in grounders with a taste for delicacies they've never had. Mounted as they were—so close and low on his shoulders—it seemed that even Cyclonus himself was apt to forget their existence, at least until the moment he needed them to fly.

And it made a kind of sense. For all the benefits they conferred in alt mode, when grounded, what were wings but a weakness? They were too telling for life among Decepticons, at least until Cyclonus schooled their twitchy tendencies as severely as his skull-like scowl—and too sensitive for a world in which the only mech with the authority to touch him used them exclusively as a target upon which to mete out punishment.

Now, though—Cyclonus had no home, served no master, yet nevertheless, the list of 'bots daring enough to lay a servo on him had recently increased by one. Occasionally, in the considerable amount of time he had to himself, Cyclonus caught himself wondering what Galvatron would think of being "replaced" by an antiquated minibot. It might have been enough to make the old jet laugh, if he didn't find the very thought of his former lord so deeply revolting.

Yes, no one ever had much cause to think about Cyclonus' wings—no one but Tailgate.

Tailgate. Simpering, annoying, _pathetically naïve_. To him, Nova Prime's Golden Age was just yesterday, and _that_ was something Cyclonus couldn't quite abide—an ever-present reminder of the very past he pined for. Always a thorn in his side, always putting his foot in his mouth about things he couldn't possibly understand, and for what? To fit in? Find a sense of _belonging_? Perhaps it was a good thing he'd been offline for six million years. Going through _half_ of what Cyclonus had would've eaten him alive.

Still… the little pest was certainly persistent. And kind. And had bigger bearings than Cyclonus had originally given him credit for, even if half of that bravery was due to stupidity or sheer _cheek_. Not every mech is willing to cozy up to a ticking time bomb… and not many diffuse explosives, either.

And Cyclonus wasn't one to deny when he'd come to _like_ a mech, for all their faults.

Or ignore it, when a mech he_ liked_ seemed to suffer a spontaneous sputtering of his cooling fans any time their optics met.

Tailgate, of course, suspected nothing, harboring his ill-hidden crush right up until the moment he found himself plucked by the scruff and seated on his suitemate's lap. But despite having somehow wormed his way into the jet's rather inscrutable affections, despite having occasionally been permitted to share a berth over the last few orns, there was one place he was _never_ allowed to touch, not without Cyclonus firmly relocating the offending limb.

Admittedly, Tailgate found that reaction a little strange—er, not that he had ever—not that he was one of _those _grounders, you know—but, well, the rumors about flyers' wings hadn't changed one bit in six million years, and he didn't see why Cyclonus' would be any different. …Would they?

There was only one way to find out. Problem was, he wasn't quite sure how to get the other mech on board. Polite inquiries about Seeker culture only earned him a neutral stare and the dare-I-say-glib response of, "Why don't you go ask one?" Offers to scrub those hard-to-reach places in the wash racks just resulted in his being firmly scooted out the door, arms whirling akimbo. Cyclonus recharged as lightly as if enemies still lurked around every corner, always woke long before his sleepy suitemate, and often slept slumped with his back to the wall, anyway. There'd be no sneaking up on _that_, not even if Tailgate changed functions and re-designated himself Mirage.

It wasn't until the evening of one especially taxing day, when he was feeling so worn and weary that this matter of wings was the last thing on his processor, that Tailgate finally got his chance.

Cyclonus was seated cross-legged on the floor in front of their hab-suite window, meditating—a process Tailgate had made a valiant effort to learn, despite his unfortunate tendency to try striking up a conversation only a few cycles in. He was getting better at it every time, though. Really!

Tonight, though? The sight of Cyclonus silhouetted as the stars imperceptibly rolled past was just too, well—too striking to disturb, not even with his customary cheerful greeting. Instead, he crept quietly to the jet's side and took a seat, amateurishly imitating the other's perfect posture. And for once, Cyclonus eventually glanced his way, the first to speak.

"We're never going to find what Rodimus seeks. We're never going to make it back to _that planet_ online." The words were mild, spoken merely as fact, but they still caused Tailgate to reel backwards in shock.

"That's not true!"

"Tch." With that, Cyclonus turned away, about to shut down, turn dismissive. "You don't know what you're—"

"It's not!" Such was the energy of the little bot's conviction that he flew to his feet, visor flashing in a desperation not so distant from panic. It had been a long day for everyone on the Lost Light, and he didn't want to think of _that_ happening to any of them—not his friends, not himself, not Cyclonus. "I mean it! I'll—I'll fight you if you don't believe me!" A few unimpressive jabs to the air only succeeded in reminding himself just how long it had been since he last threw that match-ending right hook.

Luckily for Tailgate, Cyclonus' optics merely widened a hair for a moment—and then the larger mech let out a loud crow of laughter, reaching out to take the minibot by the helm and sit him back down as easily as a cat batting a toy. "No need. I believe that _you_ believe it, at least—even if it _is_ the product of your feckless optimism."

"Cyclonus, I'm being _serious_…" Tailgate whined, rubbing his faceplates as if worried one had been dented. They hadn't. "Look, I know you say I didn't know you very well, back in Nova Prime's day… and, well, yeah. Fair enough. I think the number of mechs I, uh, 'knew well' could be counted on one servo, before I got dragged into this crazy mess. But I knew enough to know that you're better than this, that—that you cared. I think—I think you cared a lot, about Cybertron, anyway. I think you _still_ do."

"Do you, now." The jet's tone was as unreadable as his expression, though that in and of itself was usually a poor sign.

Doing his best to remain unfazed, Tailgate nodded earnestly. "Uh-huh. Why else would losing it hurt so much?"

After a moment, Cyclonus just snorted, shouldering back to his original position. The message was clear—that particular strain of the conversation, at least, was over. But Tailgate wasn't quite ready to duck away, cowed into a fumbling apology. He didn't even remember to avert his optics.

Cyclonus' sharp features and tendency towards stillness had always lent him a certain statuesque quality, but combine that with chiaroscuro cast from the window and the reverent quality Cyclonus carried into meditation, and the scene became practically sacrosanct. Tailgate had always been a minibot, but in this moment he suddenly _felt_ small, like a worshipper trailing along in the presence of something far greater than himself.

Unicron was unmistakably, irrevocably real, he'd been told—and Rewind's archives had the footage to prove it. Tailgate supposed that meant Primus was, too. Hopefully the Light-Bringer wouldn't mind too much if he reached up and touched the wing of the mech who just then—just now—felt a little like his God.

If Primus disapproved of a bit of heresy here and there, He certainly didn't show it. Cyclonus, on the other servo, snapped back to stare at his believer, optics piercing the little mech where he sat. Tailgate froze, visor flaring anxiously. He was certain that any moment now, Cyclonus would glower, or growl, or pluck that little hand off as if it were no more than a bit of dirt marring his plating. Or, Primus forbid, do worse.

But the jet only vented one deeply put-upon huff and resumed his observation of the stars through the portside portal. "If you're really that curious, you could have just _asked_."

"Sorry," Tailgate dipped his helm in what he hoped was an appropriate approximation of penitence. Secretly, he was just elated, though he hardly dared to move lest it shatter whatever miracle had compelled Cyclonus into a tolerating mood. "I thought for sure if I asked, you'd say no."

For some time, the jet didn't respond, and Tailgate eventually chanced a cautious caress to the wing beneath his servo, digits tracing up the edge of that relatively delicate plating. It felt as though Cyclonus hadn't permitted himself to relax in vorns— though, with some gentle coaxing, he gradually warmed to his touch, wing lowering a hair into Tailgate's grasp by the time Cyclonus found his voice.

"I have known Decepticons who, upon taking power for themselves, felt entitled to it. As if they could take everything they wanted, through force or deceit, and ask for nothing." He paused before continuing, words gruff, but more confession than rebuke. "You've made it clear you've chosen _not_ to become one of them… so try to act like it, will you?" The words were kindly meant—for Cyclonus, anyway—but they did, at last, get the point properly across. Tailgate nodded, momentarily sober as he pressed his free hand over his spark.

"Got it. No more, uh, not being straightforward with you. I promise." Pleased, and perhaps gaining just the slightest bit greater an understanding of the enigma that was his dour companion, the little bot scooted closer to that broad back—close enough to settle one stubby hand on each wing and resume his little backrub where it had left off. Maybe, just maybe, he felt them shudder slightly in his hands.

It was painfully obvious to Tailgate that he was nothing at all like the kind of mech Cyclonus was used to. What never occurred to him was that _that_ might be precisely why he was wanted.


End file.
